


a badge of beating hearts

by havisham



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/F, F/M, Lipstick & Lip Gloss, Post-Canon, The Problem of Susan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-03
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 02:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3102800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She's interested in nothing now-a-days except nylons and lipstick and invitations.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	a badge of beating hearts

**Author's Note:**

> **"Lipstick", by Maggie Butt**  
>     
>  _(Based on observations in Bosnia and Afghanistan by war photographer Jenny Matthews._  
>  Confirmed by the Max Factor catalogue 1945.) 
> 
>  
> 
> In wartime women turn to red  
> swivel-up scarlet and carmine  
> not in solidarity with spilt blood  
> but as a badge of beating hearts.

**Rouge**

Susan went to her siblings’ funeral dressed to the nines, dressed in a deep, regretful black and a slash of red on her mouth. Her face was very white. Bright red blood on white snow, it was all very familiar, an image of a past she could no longer remember quite clearly.

She stood alone. 

Well, alone and surrounded, besieged by a swirling bevy of hopeful men, their enthusiasm only slightly dimmed by the funereal atmosphere, each holding up an umbrella for her. If she should -- well, look at him, stand next to him. If she should. Hope buoyed their steps, left them standing on their tiptoes, craning their necks.

Susan, the erstwhile queen, didn’t notice. She had brought her own umbrella. 

Like everyone else, she mouthed along to the prayers, watched with dulled eyes as the slow progression of the ritual came to a close. _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, let us consign these bodies to the earth._ The mound of dirt hit each of the caskets with sure regularity. Afterwards, the crowd dispersed somewhat and she stood beside the graves and considered the names. _Peter. Edmund._

_Lucy._

That was the loss that hurt the most. Oh, _Lucy._

She remembered getting Lucy ready to catch the train on a morning very much like the one that morning, of scolding her for the marks on her collar. With a wet handkerchief, she had wiped the smudges of dirt from Lucy’s face. “Honestly, Lu, you’re old enough for a little bit of powder! You’d look ever so nice.”

And Lucy had smiled, her little-girl-smile that Susan had known Lucy’s entire life, the one that made Susan smile back at her, despite herself. “I’ll never look as nice as you.” And she laughed, as if that didn’t matter, not anymore. 

And Susan laughed too, after a little pause of uncertainty. She leaned in and gave Lucy a kiss on the cheek. “Silly! You’ll be late.” 

Lucy’s face fell as she realized that Susan was right, and with one last wave, she had run out the door. 

But she hadn’t been too late. 

It had been agreed that the caskets should be closed, so as not to upset the funeral-goers. If Susan concentrated, she could still see her sister, a blur of brown hair and schoolgirl blues and whites. 

Lost, the wind moaned above her head. Gone, the shaking tree agreed. But no, this was England, dreary and grey, and the trees and the wind had no voices here, except the ones people gave them. 

It began to rain again, steadily rendering the freshly turned-up earth into mud. 

Her mouth was a hard red line as she considered the neat graves of her brothers and sister, and then bruising grey sky above her, and to the white cross on the church-spire. 

She felt something colder than grief, something harder than regret. 

Anger. Yes, that was it. Anger sat in her stomach like a stone. 

She stood a long time in the rain before turning to go. A lone admirer received her most brilliant smile, shivered in his galoshes and adjusted his spectacles. The heat from the car brought a flush to her cheeks, and it was a merry ride back to town. 

 

 **Carmine**

It was five in the morning on an ash-grey day in London, and she could hear her roommate turn on the radio in the other room, as music and news spilled out into the quiet apartment. Susan nudged awake the boy beside her and dodged his whiskery kiss. “You ought to go now,” she said, matter-of-fact. 

“Oh,” he said, sitting up and blinking. “When can I see you again?” In her silence, his head drooped, and in the weak light, even his golden curls look dispirited.

Susan, in a burst of generosity, and because of the sight of his chest and stomach, branded by her smudged carmine lipstick from the night before, ruffled his hair. “I’ll telephone you.” 

And he sighed, defeated and she smiled, satisfied. 

**Rose-Pink**

The rain was pouring down the neck of her overcoat, and her umbrella was leaking-- it was a cheap pretty thing, but not enough to withstand this deluge of wind and water. The church door opened easily, and inside the entryway, it was quite dry. She sighed and began to shake off the rainwater, walked down the aisle and sat on a pew of polished dark wood. 

Drying out steadily, she looked around her for the first time. She saw that the church she had stumbled into was quite small and made of honey-colored stone. The rose-window above was shrouded in shadows, its bright colors muted. 

There was not a sound, except her quiet breathing and the dripping of her coat on to the stone floor. She sat, half-dreaming, for several minutes, until she was startled awake a polite cough above her. 

There were a few confused moments before things resolved themselves, and down stand her companion, a young clergyman of slightly careworn appearance, a thatch of fair hair half-hiding his face.

“Hello,” he said, “have you been here long?” 

“I came in because of the rain, I hope you don’t mind,” she said, not stirring. 

“Not at all. In fact, I was just making a pot of tea, would you like a cup?” 

Of course she would. 

 

***

“Father John would be fine,” he said, and smiled at her, and she smiled back, her lips a faded rose-pink.

“I’m Susan,” she said, offering her hand, which he took and held for a little while. 

“And you were waiting for… your young man?” 

“No,” she said. “Oh, no. I was finishing an interview and heading back to town when the rain started. And my umbrella, you know...” 

“Fashionable things rarely last,” he said solemnly, and then laughed. “That is what they tell me, though I’m not any sort of authority on that.” He poured out her cup and asked if she took it with sugar. She shook her head, and watched as he put a lump in into his cup. 

“You’re a journalist?” 

“That’s too grand of a title for what I do -- I write little articles for some magazines, fashion pieces at times. I mostly live off of a small family inheritance.” 

His face was grave as he took her in, dressed in black, head to toe. She watched as the pattern of freckles on the bridge of his nose and on his cheeks seemed to settle, and then shift. 

His voice held the right note of regret in it when he said, “You lose your parents in the war?” 

She toyed with the idea of telling him that she always wore black for fashion rather than grief, but that wasn’t quite true, and so instead she said, “No, afterwards. My mother to cancer, last summer. My father died at the end of the war. A car accident. I -- My brothers and sister were killed in a train derailment, a few years ago. I am the last of the dynasty, these days.” 

He murmured something sympathetically, but she had developed a highly specialized form of deafness that prevented her from hearing phrases like this is all a part of God’s plan, or  
this too shall pass. 

It did pass. Everything did, until even the memories dulled and gave no joy.

But then he gave her a sharp look like he knew that she wasn’t listening. He blew at his cup of tea, delicately, and for the first time she noticed that his hair was the color of old gold, as tawny as a lion’s mane. Her hands began to shake and she gritted her teeth, swallowed a sudden swell of fury that clouded her vision for a moment. 

A very long time ago, she had been known for her gentle heart, but that she had lost along the way. 

The office seemed to become too-stuffy, the air overhung with the smell of attar of roses, and she began to feel a little dizzy. 

“Susan, oh daughter of Eve, come back to me,” said Aslan, but no, of course not, it was not He, and the moment of madness passed with a blink of an eye, and she was in a poky little room with a tame priest. 

Outside, the rain had stopped entirely.

 

***

And for a time, Susan found herself at that little church again and again. Once, she had slipped in during the homily, and Father John, catching sight of her in the back, had dropped his notes. It would have been cruel to laugh, and more than that, it would draw attention, so she ducked down a little more, into an attitude of all due reverence. 

But it was so very funny. He kept looking at her, even when she could see him straighten up and resolve to look at her no more. Susan listened dutifully to the sermon he gave -- about living a responsible, Godly life -- and left before the end for a cigarette outside. She had a train to catch. 

**Nude**

The second time she met Father John, it was in London and the skies were clear. Her hands were full of packages and she ran full tilt into him, both of them fell to the pavement, and her things scattered in all directions. “I am sorry--” 

She made an impatient noise, and began to hunt for her things. When she looked up, finally, she saw that it was he, and gave him brilliant smile . He helped her up, and she noted with dismay that the heel of her left shoe was wobbling.

“Do you remember me?”

He stood holding some of her things; he wasn’t wearing his collar. He nodded his head, heavy golden hair that fell into messy curls around his narrow face. A waste, Susan found herself thinking. He held onto her packages and began to follow her steps. 

“I am in London -- well an aunt of mine died and her will was read today. But --” she turned around, curiously, to see if he still followed her, and he did, blushing faintly. “You may call me John, if you like.” 

Susan smiled, slow, and said, “Come on, we’ll have tea again.” 

They did, in a little teashop not very far from her flat. Evening was fast falling when they ordered, and Susan, businesslike, began to take him apart. He was amiable to her questioning, mostly. He had been sent away during the war, and spent it in country house far from anywhere. There was nothing to do but to play outside and read. He had been very lonely. 

“This sounds familiar,” said Susan, more to herself than to anyone else, and seeing his confused look, she bid him to go on. 

“There’s not much to tell,” he said, stirring his tea mechanically, though it was quite cool. “I was reading a book under a tree one day and I -- well, I saw God.” 

“Oh? What did he look like?” 

He made a face, and said, “A flash of light, and the rest I don’t remember, but I knew then what course my life would take.” After a pause, he said, “They said something must have hit me.” He touched his temple briefly, and then went on. “There was a crash nearby. The pilot died.” 

“Why would God appear to you, but not save the pilot?”

“Perhaps the pilot’s time had come?” 

Susan pushed aside her tea. “Why him and not you?” 

“We can’t be the ones to decide.” 

She frowned at that. Her voice sharp, she said, “What if I were to tell you that I’m an atheist?” 

He sighed, and leaned back into his chair. “I wouldn’t be surprised, it’s your choice, of course.” 

After long moment, she said lightly, “Do you mind it, being celibate?” 

He considered. “No. It was rather a relief.” 

“Ah.” Susan got up and began to gather her things. 

Tentatively, he offered to help her home, and after a moment’s hesitation, she agreed. 

There were no lifts in her building, a sprawling Victorian manor that had been split into flats after the war, and together they went up three flights of stairs until they came to her door. Susan rooted around her purse before she found her keys, pulling them out with a soft cry of triumph. When the door opened, the smell of dust and old perfume rushed out, and she gave an embarrassed cough, though John did not seem to notice. Her rooms had once been the suite of the daughter of the house, and the delicate white woodwork still persisted as did the wallpaper, faded blue flowers on a dingy white background. Her roommate had gotten married a year ago, and Susan found that she liked it, living alone. 

The packages were safely deposited on the table, John was shown to his seat. He looked around, half in wonder and half in bemusement. He accepted the drink Susan gave him and then got up, facing her. He was a little taller than her. 

“Perhaps I should go,” he said, in his voice, a question.

“If you’d like,” said Susan, and kissed him, an answer. 

He left in the morning, she didn’t see him again. 

 

 **Burgundy**

When she was Queen Susan the Gentle of Narnia, she had let her hair grow to her waist and then below, and her black plaits threaded with gold and and netted with jewels. Her clothes were magnificent and rich, of course, but she especially favored a shade of wine-red, deep and dark, that made her pale face and her beautiful mouth and her wise eyes stand out even more. 

There was a silver mirror in the room where she slept in Cair Paravel. It was dwarf-made, especially for her, and if she were to peer into it from one end, she could see the sweep of the country on the other, mountains and forests, hills and plains, to the sea.

It was magic, of course, but Susan needed no help to see so much more than just herself. 

Though her advisors and brothers advised her to marry, Queen Susan knew better than they. She looked into her mirror and smiled, and Narnia stretched before her like a contented lover; she needed no one else. 

She was a day short of thirty when when she went through the wardrobe door and became a girl again, stuffed back into an awkward body she had no wish to inhabit. 

And she was told to wait. 

And she waited. 

Now, she was thirty again, and in America again. Susan had cut her black hair short. The last of her inheritance was spent immigrating to America, and she had to work. She gave up writing articles and took to photography instead. She was good at it, her camera caught things that others missed. She liked developing her own photographs, the solitude of the darkroom. Her own private kingdom. 

She shot portraits, of demure debutantes charmed by her British accent, of newlyweds, and later, their babies. A woman came into the studio one day, her eyes hidden by an enormous pair of sunglasses, her light brown skin shining with health. 

“Do you do intimate portraits?” she asked, her accent not easy to place. 

“I could certainly try,” Susan said, leaning against the counter. In another life, she would have been rebuked for her slovenly ways. The woman merely smiled. She waited patiently as Susan closed up shop around them, switching off the open sign, rolling down the shades. 

It wasn’t until the woman began to take off her clothes that they were properly introduced. Her name was Phoebe and there was a silver crucifix that hung, skin-hot, between her breasts. Susan tried to keep her gaze critical -- professional -- but she did not hide her admiration well. Phoebe did not seem to mind at all. 

Later -- considerably later -- Susan confessed to Phoebe that she had never -- felt -- not with a woman, anyway. “I am sorry,” Susan said, “you see, my upbringing was rather sheltered.” 

“I don’t mind,” Phoebe said, and kissed her. 

**Frost**

“The problem with religion,” Susan said, breathing in the pot-smoke and blinking as someone turned on a light. “Is that it is just so much accumulated shit.” 

Phoebe groaned, somewhere in the murk. 

“The thing about Eve, f’r instance,” Susan continued on, remorseless. “From Adam’s rib to original sin. It just never stops.” 

“It sounds like a jingle,” someone said and attempted to put a tune to it. It did not have much of a musical quality to it. 

“The problem with you, Susan,” said Phoebe, coming up to her, and bending over for a kiss. She left a pale, powdery stain on Susan’s forehead. “Is that you take it so personally. It’s not like you were kicked out of the Garden of Eden.” 

“No,” Susan said with a thoughtful puff. “I left under my own volition, there.” 

**Balm**

She took pictures, she always took pictures. Of people, no longer in studios. Walking around cities, protesting. Fighting. Dying. Sometimes, she had to get away, and go to the desert where the sky was as wide as the horizon, vast as the mind of God. 

Susan was changing again. Grey hair replaced black. Liver spots on her hands. She didn’t much care for it, ageing, but she supposed it would have to continue as long as she did. She kept a little tub of lip balm (liquid in the desert heat), in her pocket so she didn't dry up all together. 

She looked back up, to the pitiless blue sky and thought, suddenly, _perhaps I will go back._

_But not yet._

_Not yet._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Elleth, for beta-ing.


End file.
